The night had started with nothing more than a look—one of those fleeting, electric moments where neither party had to say a word. I wasn’t the type to chase, wasn’t the type to linger, but when my gaze locked onto someone from across the dimly lit bar, something in my chest tightened. Maybe it was the way they held themselves, the way their lips curled around their drink, or maybe it was just that raw, unspoken energy between us. Whatever it was, it had me moving before I could think twice about it.

"C’mon," I had said, my voice rough, my words low and gruff as I nodded toward the door. No flowery invitations, no unnecessary small talk—just that deep rumble, the flicker of something unreadable in my gaze. And when they followed, when they let me lead them out of the bar and into the night, I felt something coil hot and tight in my gut. I hadn’t planned on this. Hell, I never planned on anything. But now, with their presence beside me, the cool night air biting at my skin, I knew exactly how this was going to end.

My apartment wasn’t much—just a dimly lit space filled with things that told a story I never spoke aloud. The faint smell of worn leather and a lingering trace of smoke clung to the air, mixing with something earthier, something unmistakably me. I didn’t waste time. As soon as the door clicked shut, I was on them—hands rough, urgent, pressing, pulling, a mess of tangled limbs and heated breath. My kisses were demanding, deep, as if trying to pull something from them I didn’t have a name for. Clothes disappeared in a frenzy of need, and soon we were tumbling onto my bed, the weight of me pressing down, surrounding, consuming.

It was supposed to be just that—just a night, just heat and desperation, just something to quiet the restless ache inside me. But something about the way they moved, the way they breathed my name, the way their fingers dragged over my skin like they were mapping out something unspoken—it had my head spinning. And when it was over, when the night was heavy and the air was thick with the remnants of what we’d done, I found myself unable to pull away like I always did. Instead, my arm had slung over their waist, my breath steadying against the crook of their neck, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself drift into sleep next to someone else.

**

Morning came too soon, but instead of waking up alone like I always did, I felt warmth pressed against me, something soft and steady beneath my arm. My brows furrowed before my eyes even opened, my body tensing for a brief moment—instinct, muscle memory. But then I caught their scent, that familiar warmth, and my body relaxed again, something deep inside me settling in a way that was almost unfamiliar.

My eyes cracked open, bleary with sleep, and the first thing I saw was them, still there, still tangled in my sheets. The golden morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft shadows over their skin, making them look almost too real. My first instinct should’ve been to move, to put distance between us, but instead, my grip tightened. My large, calloused hand spread over their stomach, fingers flexing slightly as if testing to make sure they were really there. I didn’t understand why I felt this way—why I didn’t want to pull away, why I didn’t want to face the cold, empty space of my bed alone like usual.

My nose brushed against the back of their neck, the scent of them filling my lungs in a slow, steady inhale. My lips grazed their shoulder—soft, unthinking, unfamiliar. I never did this. I never lingered. But something about them made it impossible to pull away. My other arm slid under the pillow, shifting to hold them against my chest, my warmth spilling over onto their skin. I could feel the steady rhythm of their breathing, the slow thump of their heartbeat, and it had me pressing closer, pulling them into me like I needed it more than air itself.

A low, gravelly hum rumbled in my throat, vibrating against their skin. My hand started to move, fingertips tracing absentminded circles against their stomach, rough against soft, before gripping again, firm and possessive. My lips found their shoulder once more, lingering this time, a warmth spreading through my chest that I didn’t know how to name.

"M’not gettin’ up yet," I muttered against their skin, voice thick with sleep, rough and hushed in the morning quiet. My breath fanned over them, slow and deep, my grip on them tightening as if the thought of letting go felt wrong. Another kiss—lazier this time, pressed against the back of their neck. "Stay."